


Naked as a Window

by Indybaggins



Category: BBC Historical Farm TV RPF
Genre: Almost Kiss, Historical Reenactment, Loneliness, M/M, Sex, Sleeping Together, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is the tired step around him, the ghost passing him by on a dreary morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naked as a Window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marginaliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/gifts).



 

 

 

Alex gets up at dawn. He shaves with a straight razor, steps into yesterday’s clothes that are stiff with dirt and sweat, then goes outside to work for a couple of hours before breakfast. Peter is there already, a dark distant figure against the backdrop of the Tamar Valley and the dull morning sky. 

They feed the cattle, haul water, clean stables. They cross paths regularly, by the stable door, by the river, walk past each other in an early morning shuffle. They don’t speak. 

There are wisps of fog rolling over the water, dampening most sounds but the water rushing past the riverbanks. The rustling of leaves on the near-naked trees. A bird’s call, interrupted. 

They shared the bed, last night. 

 

  


_Peter is secrets. Empty corners and cold beds._

_He gets drunk at Halloween, then even more so at Christmas. He’s hot breaths reeking of home-made alcohol, clumsy hands grabbing Alex on the stairs, the rumble of laughter in his ear. Sucking him off on his bed with a frown on his forehead, with his eyes shut tight, as if he’s not sure what he’s doing and if he even likes it._

_He throws up in a bucket, later._

_Twice._

 

  


The hills are rolling waves of mottled green and brown and grey occasionally peeking out from the fog, making the valley feel closed off. As if it’s holding its breath. 

Alex goes into the henhouse, the acrid smell of chicken shit in his nose, the warmth of the animals. He picks them up, one by one, presses their feathers down. Feels their soft heat and quick, frail heartbeats against his hands.

 

  


_Peter is burning. Sweating in the hayloft, struggling out of clothes, wet breaths against his neck._

_Peter licking a trail down his naked back, hands shy against his belt, Alex pressed against a hay bale, trousers down by his knees, biting his wrist so he doesn’t make a sound. Closing his eyes while the straw jabs at his stomach and face, the wooden floor creaks, clouds of dust dance in the air._

_Pulling his trousers up afterwards with shaking hands, sunlight falling in filtered columns through the roof, sweat prickling in his armpits, Peter’s scent all over his skin._

 

  


Alex collects the eggs from between dirty straw and annoyed clucking hens, and brings them to the farmhouse, puts them aside for Ruth. 

The farmhouse is small and smells like neglect and mould. There’s the ever-present grime of the stove, smoked fish, salted pork, the limestone Ruth uses to scrub the floors. He hates it. He loves it. 

Whenever he goes back home there are too many people in the city. The whole of them overwhelming: the noise, the rattling, prattling, beeping mass. The lights are too bright; the people are clouds of chemicals, smelling complicated and unpleasant, voices jarringly loud. 

His sister makes wedding plans, and all he can think is ‘not then, it’s lambing season.’ 

It’s disorienting.

 

  


_Peter gets him off with dirty fingers in a small, claustrophobic tent, the blazing heat of the furnace nearby._

_Alex’s nose and throat and eyes are burning with limestone fumes and fatigue, his shoulders ache, his hands are blistered, knees bent, still he leans down and sucks him, too._

_Peter sighs and touches his face; leaves traces of coal on his cheeks. The gasses swirl around the kiln._

_For the rest of the night Peter is a heavy head asleep on his shoulder, snoring loudly into his ear. Alex can taste him on the back of every swallow._

 

  


It’s not nearly as idyllic as it looks on camera. It feels naive, what they’re doing. It’s a set-up. History is not now, they’re not living it, they can’t, they’re only trying at best. The cows stink, his clothes itch, they’re cold and dirty and tired most of the time. 

But the farm is real. The animals are there, alive and present, a constant chore, a gift. 

After they’ve filmed a segment, Alex lingers for days in the dull quiet. Reading, wandering the fields and hills, touching trees and crops, feeding cows, waiting, perhaps. 

He’s not alone. Peter and Ruth stay too. 

 

  


_Peter’s chapped lips brush the side of his face in an almost kiss on a Dartmoor hill._

_There’s hard beating wind and bleating sheep around them. Scrambling together in a mock-struggle, lying down on the side of the hill._

_Alex has rocks in his back and dirt in his hair and scraped palms, after. Spit drying on his thighs. Peter has a small, finger-shaped bruise on the curve of his cheekbone._

 

  


They drive the cattle up to a higher pasture later, a camera crew ready to stand in the way and film it all. The animal’s flanks are steaming in the morning light, their protests deep rumbling sounds. It’s sweaty work and it’s cold out, the hike up makes Alex’s breaths come sharp and painful in the back of his throat. 

Peter calls for the cows and rattles a bucket of feed. The sound reverberates through the hills. 

 

  


_Peter’s callused hand travels under his knitted jumper on a rocking ship. Settles hot against the skin of his ribs._

_They’re standing on deck, alone, share a long, desperate exhale; unbutton trousers in the middle of the damp night. Listen to creaking wood as the ship goes up and down. The rush of the waves. Salt air and want._

_Alex can feel it in his legs for a whole day after. Swaying._

 

  


Time waxes and wanes with the seasons. Ruth has a family outside of this, the household and the stove, optimism and a type of practicality that keeps them both fed and connected. She giggles, sings, sometimes makes eyes at the camera men and then laughs it off. She’s happy. 

And Peter... 

 

  


Peter is the rough pile of clothes and muddy boots next to the bed. Bad morning breath and sweaty feet and questions in barely-there glances. 

Peter is hairs that tickle his fingertips, press against his lips, the line of his belly lush and warm as he mouths it. 

Peter is a profile, looking away, always, in sharp relief against the sunlight. The weak line of his eyelashes, the sudden red of his lips when he bites them. 

Peter is vulnerable, naked under thick bedding, Alex running his lips against the fine, wisplike hairs on the back of his neck, moving his hand until he comes apart against his fingers. 

 

  


Peter is the tired step around him, the ghost passing him by on a dreary morning, his eyes a startling blue.

Not saying a word.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
